


there were two in the bed (and the little one said)

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: “Maybe this is why they insisted I bring a Consort,” Quentin says, curling closer against Penny’s chest. “So they wouldn’t have to waste resources heating my rooms.”
Relationships: William "Penny" Adiyodi/Quentin Coldwater
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	there were two in the bed (and the little one said)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/gifts).



> Thank you to Sylph for betaing!
> 
> This takes place in some kind of nebulous season two-ish AU where the gang is happily ruling Fillory without any big world-ending crap going on.

Quentin and Penny only arrived in this castle yesterday, but Quentin’s ready to call it: there isn’t a single room in this place that isn’t fucking freezing. Somehow, despite living way at the top of a frigid mountain, these people have apparently never heard of insulation. There are sullen, grey-faced servants who came in yesterday evening to stoke the fire and fill a brazier with coals to slip under the sheets of their (small, cold, uncomfortable) bed. There’s at least some amount of winter sunlight coming through the drab curtains now, and there are piles of furs on top of the blankets. None of it helps. Even the warming charms they’ve tried have fizzled. It’s like this place immediately snuffs out the tiniest bit of coziness.

“Maybe this is why they insisted I bring a Consort,” Quentin says, curling closer against Penny’s chest. “So they wouldn’t have to waste resources heating my rooms.”

“Wish they’d run that by me ahead of time,” Penny says. “I’m already the royal taxi service, I never signed up to be the royal space heater as well.”

They’d started out last night trying to sleep on separate sides of the bed. Then they’d gradually migrated towards each other over the course of an hour, each pretending it wasn’t happening, until Penny had said _fuck this shit, get over here_ and pulled Quentin against him. 

At this point, they’ve fully given up on trying not to cuddle. Penny’s got his arms wrapped tight around Quentin’s waist, clinging to him for warmth. Their legs are woven together, Quentin’s hands are tucked in the hot space between their bellies. The quilt is pulled up to Quentin’s chin, and Penny’s head is ducked down, his forehead resting against Quentin’s, to keep himself tucked in as much as possible. The little cocoon they’ve created is actually a reasonable temperature, but Quentin absolutely dreads having to get up and put his feet on the stone floor to get dressed.

This is — a little different from what they’d both bargained for, when they’d agreed to this diplomatic mission. Pretending in public that Penny is his Consort is one thing. A weird thing, but one thing. Cuddling with him in private is… something else. Quentin’s pretty sure he’d have lost at least one finger to frostbite if they hadn’t spent the night pressed together, though. It was a practical decision. And who knows, maybe it’ll give some… verisimilitude, or whatever, to the act they have to keep up this week so this weird mountain kingdom will negotiate with them.

“One week,” Quentin sighs. “Not a full week, even. We get this treaty signed and we get the fuck out of here.”

“Can’t be soon enough,” Penny mutters. “Is the sun up yet?”

Quentin turns just his head to squint at the window. “Almost, I think.”

“Good— holy fuck, your toes are fucking freezing.”

“Well warm them up, then,” Quentin says, trying to worm his feet back between Penny’s squirming calves.

“The fuck I will— get them off me, you asshole.” Penny thrashes furiously, and Quentin laughs, holding on for dear life, tucking his chin down so their heads won’t collide. “Jesus. See if I don’t fucking go home and leave your needy ass here.”

Quentin laughs some more and lets Penny wrestle himself away. “Yeah, right. And then come back thirty seconds later after Margo and Alice kick your ass clear across the multiverse.”

“I’m not scared of them,” Penny sneers in the tone of someone who is _absolutely_ scared of them. He sits up and flings the covers nearly all the way off the bed, making Quentin yelp as the freezing air immediately bites through his not-nearly-warm-enough pajamas. “Come on. Let’s hope these fuckers have at least heard of coffee.”

-

Quentin’s back is fucking _killing_ him. The weird granite chairs in the council room are possibly the least comfortable things he’s ever had the misfortune to put his ass on, and since he’s here on official business, he can’t even curl his legs up under him to mix it up a little. The bath the servants drew for him started out reasonably warm, though, so he’s taking his sweet time soaking in it, trying to soothe his tired muscles.

“I think today went pretty well,” he calls out.

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” Penny calls back, from somewhere on the other side of the grey linen curtain that provides a tiny bit of privacy for the bathing area. “You’re not as shit at this as I thought you were gonna be.”

“Gee, thanks.” Quentin does yet another warming charm, just out of habit, and sighs when it only makes the water shiver a little and not get even slightly hotter. “You could’ve helped more, you know.”

“I _was_ helping.”

Quentin reaches for the towel on the chair next to him and attempts another fruitless warming charm on it before he gets himself out of the bath. “By sitting there brooding?”

“I’m psychic, dickwad,” Penny says. “I was _reading their minds._ The Queen’s wards aren’t bad, unlike _some_ people I could mention—” Quentin glares at him as he rummages under his pillow for his pajamas. “—but the Prince Consort is fucking dumb as a box of rocks. Terrible warding.” Penny scoots over as Quentin scurries into the bed, tucking himself under as many blankets as he can. “They’re real anxious about the mining stuff, worried we’re gonna just swoop in and magic all their shit out from under them. We can use that, if we have to.”

“That’s— actually really helpful.” Quentin blinks. “Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Penny says wryly. “Snooping and emergency exiting. And being the hot one.”

“Uh huh,” Quentin says. He’s mostly dry, except for his hair, but he’s starting to shiver as the chill of the room seeps through the covers. “So, uh. Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” Penny says, and holds out his arm.

Quentin scoots in and tucks himself against him, unable to stop the happy sigh that comes out of him. Fortunately, Penny also seems to be relatively okay with these circumstances, interlacing his sock-clad feet with Quentin’s and relaxing into the bed. “Get anything else good out of the Prince Consort?”

“Nothing so far. I think he’s stupid enough they don’t tell him much. I’ll try to read between the lines, though.”

“You think you can get into the Queen’s wards?”

“I might be able to,” Penny says, “if there stopped being so much _noise_ from my side of the table.” He worms a hand out from under the covers, and Quentin thinks he’s about to get flicked in the forehead, but Penny just pushes the pad of his thumb right between Quentin’s eyes. “Can you just, like, chill?”

“Uh, while we’re negotiating a fucking multi-kingdom treaty that the fate of half our population depends on? No. No, I cannot chill.”

It’s weird, having their normal mildly hostile conversation while pressed right up against each other. Quentin can feel Penny’s breath when he snorts, and the pillow they’re sharing moves when he shakes his head in exasperation. It’s definitely a different vibe than when they snark at each other from a respectable distance across the room, but at least he’s warm, like this, and comfortable.

“I’ll work on them,” he says. “My wards. No promises they’ll be better before we get done here, though.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Penny says, taking his hand off Quentin’s face. “I’ll adjust. I got used to you blaring your thoughts at me the whole time we were roommates before, I’ll get used to it again.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He wriggles a little further down. “Still. I’ll try.”

-

Quentin stumbles as he pulls off his pants, listing dangerously towards the bed. He catches himself by putting a hand on the first available solid thing — Penny’s shoulder, as Penny sits on the edge of the bed taking off his shoes — and pushes himself standing.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. One thing we have to do— something to include in the treaty, is uh. We gotta get their wine.”

“Noted,” Penny says. “Priority one.”

“No, like, priority four, but.” Quentin strips out of his shirt, crawls onto the bed to find his pajamas. “Maybe three.” He thrashes his way under the covers and collapses, sighing heartily as the room spins a little and the chill of the air recedes. “It’s fucking nice to get fucked up again.”

“Tell me about it,” Penny groans, joining him. He hasn’t bothered to put on his pajama shirt yet, and his skin is _so_ warm as he pulls Quentin against his chest. “You’re a lot more fun when you’re a little wasted.”

“Mm.” Quentin nuzzles his face a little into Penny’s chest hair. “You’re a lot easier to tolerate when I’m a little wasted.”

“Fuck off,” Penny says without any real heat to it. “You weren’t having any problems _tolerating_ me in the parlor after dinner. You were basically sitting in my lap.”

“I was fucking cold,” Quentin says. Which is true, more or less. The alcohol had been warming him from the inside, but being tucked up against Penny’s side warmed him up in— kind of a different way. “And we’re fucking cuddling every night anyway. We’re supposed to be _Consorts_ , or whatever.” He pushes himself further into Penny’s personal space, worming his feet underneath Penny’s shins before his toes can get cold. “I’m just, I’m trying to sell it.”

“Yeah? You want to make out in the middle of the throne room tomorrow, see if that sells it even better?”

Another type of warmth pulses through Quentin’s body, concentrating itself in his chest and the cradle of his hips. There’s a fuzzy notion at the edge of his senses that he should maybe be embarrassed by it, maybe move away from Penny, but that doesn’t seem very important right now. “If you think we should,” he says, “I’m game.”

Penny goes weirdly tense. “You’re the King,” he says after a moment. “I’m just the Consort. Ball’s in your court.”

“Mm,” Quentin says again. Penny’s skin is nice and hot against his cheek. He yawns broadly, then presses a lazy kiss to the expanse of comfortable chest in front of him. “‘Kay,” he says, before the wine drags him sluggishly down into sleep.

-

The treaty, all fifty-one clauses of it, is finally, _finally_ done. It’s done, it’s drafted, they did it. Quentin wakes up still feeling jittery — he doesn’t think he’ll really be able to relax until they sign the final copy this afternoon, after all the delegates have recovered a bit from the feasting and dancing last night — but the solid weight of Penny’s arm over his waist keeps him pinned in place. He sighs and closes his eyes again, hoping he can drift off for another little while.

Sleep eludes him, unfortunately, his mind wandering excitedly over yesterday’s triumph. He really hadn’t known at all if he was going to be good at this. And he’s still not sure _good_ is a totally accurate descriptor, but they got most of what they wanted out of the agreement, and didn’t have to give up more than they’d planned on. Penny’s intel about the mining rights had been extremely useful, in the end, and with a few other insights he’d snuck out of the other delegates, they’d had the Queen eating out of their hand by the end of negotiations. Against absolutely all odds, he and Quentin actually make a pretty good team.

And he’s nice and warm, too. Weirdly cuddly, for someone with such long limbs and a prickly personality. Quentin would never admit it, but thinks he might miss sleeping all tangled up like this, when they’re back in Fillory. It’s been— nice. Really nice.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Penny mutters into Quentin’s hair. “We get to sleep in today, ‘m trying to take advantage of it.”

“Sorry.” Quentin draws in a deep breath, sighs it out. Tries to clear his thoughts, focus on the physical sensations of his body to lull himself back to sleep. The press of the pillow into his cheek, warmed by his skin. The softness of Penny’s silk pajama top between his fingers. The beat of his heart against Quentin’s chest. The weight of one leg flung over both of Quentin’s. It’s so, so comfortable. Quentin had worried a lot, like a _lot_ , about dancing last night, but after nearly a week of Penny’s arms around him every night, moving together across the dance floor had felt far more natural than he was anticipating.

Penny snorts. “You still stepped on my feet like five times. But yeah, I expected you to have a fucking meltdown, so. Not too bad.”

“If you’re trying to sleep, stop listening to my thoughts,” Quentin grouses. “Or let me get up and go somewhere else.”

“Not a chance,” Penny says, his arms squeezing tighter around Quentin’s torso. “It’ll be freezing in here without you. You just lie there and shut your brain up and let me sleep.”

“Lie back and think of Fillory?” Quentin jokes, then falls back into silence, smiling to himself. It’s weird but nice, honestly, that he feels comfortable enough in their mostly-friendship to say that kind of thing? A year ago, he’s pretty sure Penny would have decked him for making like, the vaguest hint of a sexual joke about him. And now they’re in bed together, Quentin’s face pressed into Penny’s neck — Quentin’s gone on actual real dates that didn’t get nearly this far, and Penny’s totally silent at the implication that he might have to roll Quentin over and fuck him for the good of their kingdom—

Quentin is suddenly aware that his heartbeat has picked up. That Penny’s hand is resting on the small of his back. That currently, the only thing separating their bodies — like, _every single part_ of their bodies — are a couple of layers of fabric. Thin fabric.

“I mean,” Penny says slowly, “that would definitely keep us warm.”

Then he draws back just enough to tip his face down towards Quentin’s and Quentin leans up and they’re kissing, lips meeting hot and slow in a motion that feels as natural as breathing. The kiss moves from experimental, through determined, into heated, Quentin licking his way into Penny’s mouth, already breathing hard as Penny slides a hand under the back of Quentin’s shirt.

Penny tries to roll over on top of Quentin and Quentin pushes back just on principle, breaks the kiss. “Who says I want you on top?”

“Your own fucking dirty mind,” Penny laughs. “You really gonna tell me you don’t want to get fucked? I can _feel_ how bad you want it.”

“I— that’s cheating!”

“Relax, Coldwater.” Penny shifts over him again, and Quentin moans as he presses him back down into the mattress. “This is the one time you can be thankful your wards are so shitty. I’m gonna know _exactly_ what you want me to do to you.”

Quentin lunges up to kiss him again, hands tearing at the drawstring of his pants. Penny’s right, of course, although he doesn’t have to be so fucking _smug_ about it. Quentin’s the King, here. Penny’s just the Consort. Obviously he should do what Quentin wants.

Penny laughs into their kiss, busy rucking Quentin’s shirt up. “Yeah,” he purrs, making Quentin’s whole body jolt. “You just keep thinking that’s how we’re gonna play this.” He puts his lips right up to Quentin’s ear, bites at his earlobe, then adds, low, dangerous: “Your _majesty._ ”

They’re late for the treaty signing. But on the plus side, for one whole morning, their room didn’t feel the slightest bit cold.


End file.
